


Famished

by gracefulally



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-13
Updated: 2006-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-21 06:01:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracefulally/pseuds/gracefulally
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ash is thankful for many things, but will abandon them all in a heartbeat if there is promise of pie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Famished

NASCAR, Pabst, chicks with perky nipples, Hot Pockets, flash bang salutes, and Slashdot -- all were easily in the top ten things Ash was thankful for this year. And last year. And the year before that one.

He was a simple man, really.

So, to celebrate this time of thanks giving -- his feet were put up, a cold one was in his hand, and a selection from his most _stimulating_ reading material laid open on his lap. Days just didn’t get much more relaxing than this.

“Ash!” a woman barked, breaking the silence of the empty bar.

Now, normally, the inherent command in that particular voice would have warranted Ash's rapt attention, but today? Hell no. This was a holiday and therefore, his day "off."

Ash twisted his profile toward the sound; his eyes sliding away from the near-impossible and arousing angle of Ms. Jersey Vine’s pose on a foldout deck chair. “Yes, ma’am?” he slowly drawled over his shoulder.

Propping the door to the back half of the Roadhouse was Ellen Harvelle with her plaid sleeves rolled up and hair held loosely in a handkerchief -- apparently, it was a cleaning day. “You hungry?”

“I ain’t full,” Ash offered with a slight shrug of his pale shoulders.

“Jo’s cooked a meal--that bird Ethan trapped, potatoes, and some rolls.”

“And a pecan pie!” a second voice chimed in and garnered his full attention.

Ash felt the need to clarify his previous answer. “Hell then, I’m famished!”

There was a flash of a crooked smile and flick of an unruly mane when Ash quickly abandoned his roost. The gravelly sound of Ellen’s laugh was punctuated by the muted slap of the forgotten magazine hitting the bar.

“Your hands clean?” Ellen asked, fixing Ash with an incisive look as he passed through the doorway.

“That depends on your definition of 'clean.'”

Jo snorted, but her mother raised a brow. “Wash up,” Ellen cautioned evenly, “or no pie.”

Ash immediately detoured toward the double sink and cleared his throat to catch the attention of the young blond wearing a flowered apron. “Hand me that soap there, Jo.”

With a smirk, the green Lava bar was lazily tossed in his direction. “You’re such an easy sell, Ash.” Jo chided as she carried a stack of tall plastic cups to a long oak table with place settings for five.

Ash cast Jo a wayward glance as he scrubbed until his knuckles were raw. “My eBay history would agree with that statement.”


End file.
